


Flu's Clues

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred is in charge, Batfam mention, Batman and Superman are best friends... and so is Wonder Woman, Bruce does not do well when he's sick and cooped up in the Watchtower, Fluff, Gen, Jason got Bruce sick, Sickfic, Slightly crack-like?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 17:03:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15223748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: Bruce is overworked, unsurprisingly, and gets sick because he runs into a sick Red Hood. Is Batman going to let a little flu stop him from completing his important Justice League work? No (unless Alfred and his two best friends have anything to say about it, that is.)





	1. Who Dunnit?

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I do not own these characters, DC Comics does. I love, love, love any type of normal/caring interactions between these characters, because we don't get enough of them just being friends--which they are. I also still think it is a SHAME Netflix removed the Justice League animated series, that show was so good.

It had started the day before Bruce realized, as he felt another droplet of sweat make its way down his neck. He barely kept from sighing as J’ohn droned on… and on, and on. He tried to swallow and nearly ended up coughing, his throat was so dry and sore. Bruce made a mental note to pick up cough drops for the batmobile before patrol. He forced his (limited) attention back to the meeting, only to feel a tickle building in his throat. Batman tried to ignore it, and probably ended up looking like he was angry at J’ohn for how intently he was staring. But despite his best efforts, the tickle grew, and it was irritating. Bruce finally cleared his throat as silently as possible, but he still saw Clark and Diana throw brief, furtive, side-ways glances at him. 

Bruce sighed in annoyance but found that it rattled in his chest more than usual. Great. On top of that, the room seemed to be growing warmer, or maybe that was just him. Carefully, he moved forward half-an-inch away from his cape, to let a little cool air flow under it; not that it would help that much, given that he was still in the full (Kevlar) suit and cowl, which were both insulated in addition to the body armor on top. Finally, J’ohn moved to sit down… before Flash asked a question. Bruce shot daggers at the younger man, who to Batman’s annoyance, wasn’t even facing him to get the full brunt of the batglare. He swallowed again, trying not to wince at the horrible combination of cottonmouth and the knives he’d somehow gotten stuck in his throat. Bruce felt more beads of sweat forming in his hair and felt another run down the back of his neck. Then, he coughed again, and his breath rattled in his chest afterwards. 

Who could have gotten me sick? Bruce thought angrily, running through a list of activities he’d done over the past two weeks to see if he could pin-point the source of this infection. To his surprise, he remembered running into Jason, of all people, out on patrol. Also, now that he had some hindsight—which was a terrible thing to have to use—he remembered noting at the time how off Jason had sounded, almost as if he’d… been sick. The scrape of a chair jolted him back to the present and he looked up as Green Lantern stood. “Well, guess I’ll see you guys at the next meeting… or disaster,” he said, giving a lazy salute as he walked off. Bruce stood, mentally cursing himself for getting so distracted. Although, he was going to have to have a talk with Jason about not going out when he was sick… 

He walked into the hall and as soon as he was away from the others, Bruce swiftly removed his cape and breathed a raspy sigh of relief… which set him coughing. Finally reaching his room, Bruce wheezed a little as he typed in his access code. The moment the door whooshed shut behind him, he ripped off the cowl and closed his eyes a moment at how nice the cool air felt. That was when he decided that it might be a good idea to take a cold shower before getting some paperwork done; he’d meant to start working on an upgrade for the Watchtower’s mainframe but needed to figure out both the schematics and the accounting first. Bruce went into the small but well-done bathroom and stripped, barely repressing his shiver from how cold the air was against his skin. Before he could rethink it, he turned the shower onto ‘cold’ and hopped in, nearly yelping at the temperature of the water. But after he was fully soaked, he did have to admit it felt nice, especially as he could practically see the heat radiating off him in waves. But after he turned off the shower he felt, somehow, worse. His teeth chattered a little as he toweled off and he felt like he’d been fighting Mr. Freeze. Quickly, he pulled on a thick black turtleneck sweater, some light gray sweatpants, and a thick pair of socks. Then Bruce filled a glass of water and downed it in practically one gulp, wincing at how his throat felt. After refilling his glass, he went and sat at his desk, laptop in hand. He sat and felt a lot better as he leaned against the cool leather of the seat, opening a new word document. 

Unfortunately, this didn’t last for too much longer. About half an hour later, Bruce was shivering again, despite the thick socks and turtleneck. His throat was also on fire and he found that his tongue once again tasted like cotton. Repressing a shiver, Bruce turned up the heat, refilled his glass of water, and took a couple of ibuprofen for his throat. Finally, after doing all of that he felt better, and resumed working. Then his nose started dripping. Cursing, Bruce stood up from his chair, accidentally sending it skidding across the room where it hit his bed with a muffled thud. He marched into the bathroom and grabbed a box of tissues, stomped back into the main room, dragged over the small trashcan to his side and retrieved his chair. Bruce sat with a thump and once again, started typing, albeit with more force than truly necessary. 

Then, thankfully, his traitorous body decided to grant him a reprieve and he managed to figure out a fairly significant issue with the design of the new mainframe that had been bugging him. He sent the design schematics in an email to Cyborg and Bcc’d Barbra. After that, he went through about a week’s worth of W.E. paperwork, as Lucius had been threatening him life and limb to get it done now. Feeling a bit better, Bruce closed out of his email and the word document and opened up the case file Tim had been bugging him about for the last two days. That sent him down a rabbit hole of vanished paper trails, blackmail, and money laundering, until his nose announced its presence by dripping, and he suddenly noticed how hot it was in his room. He stood, stretching, and blew his nose as he turned the thermostat down. Then after he washed his hands, Bruce ripped off his turtleneck, so he was just in a white tank top and refilled his water. Coughing, he sat back down, trying to refocus—he’d almost had something there, he knew it, but his body was distracting him. 

Five minutes later, Bruce realized he’d zoned out and had been staring at a picture of one the suspects in Tim’s case for the past few minutes. He shivered and tried to clear his throat. With a growl—he winced, forgetting how much that hurt his throat—he stood again and turned the thermostat up. Then Bruce huffily marched back to his desk and grabbed the tissues, water, trashcan, and his laptop and hauled it over to the bed. He adjusted the pillows behind him and at last felt comfortable enough to work. He opened up a few tabs and replied to Oracle’s message, sent Tim his notes on his case, forwarded the response from Lithgo Industries’ PR department to Lucius, and adjusted the blueprints for the Watchtower based on J’ohn’s suggestions for the placement of the mainframe that he’d sent Bruce a couple hours ago. As he typed another response to Barbra, Bruce gulped another half of his glass of water, and pulled back the blankets and then turned back to his work. 

This went on for a while, until he had to pee. Coughing, he emptied his bladder, washed his hands, and then refilled his glass of water, turning the thermostat up a little as he shivered again, this time noting the slight tremor in his hands and a tiny feeling of weakness in his muscles. Sighing, he also took two more pills for his throat, then settled into bed and read Oracle’s latest messages. Just as he was about to respond, Tim’s chat icon flashed, and a new message alert beeped at him. He opened the window to see the results of a fingerprint scan. Bruce zoomed in, looking at the latest photo, of the same man from earlier, except younger. The man, once again, seemed familiar, he wasn’t sure why, but Bruce knew he’d seen his face before on some other case… the problem was, which one? A couple minutes later, Bruce blinked, realizing that he’d almost dozed off. He shook his head and winced at the way that made his brain feel squashed. He sighed, as both Barbra and Tim were demanding his attention. Tim’s case was financial, and as far as he knew not life-threatening, so he figured that the new design for the Watchtower could come first for now. 

He finally gave Barbra a satisfactory enough response that she shut up and then he turned back to Tim. He looked at that photo again, zooming in farther, sure that he’d seen that face before. He stared pensively at it, trying to place the bits together in his head. Bruce’s eyes grew heavy, and he unconsciously leaned farther against his pillows, laptop open at his side, the message icon blinking. He ignored it as his eyes drifted shut, mind still whirring. …


	2. Oracle to the Rescue

After sending Bruce five more messages, Barbra activated the webcam feature; it was nice being Oracle, sometimes… Okay, a lot of the time. What she saw surprised her: Bruce was passed out a couple feet from his computer, which was still open—otherwise activating his webcam would do nothing—and he sounded sick. Barbra also noted that he looked flushed. She quickly contacted Tim, who she knew he’d also been talking to, and asked if anyone in the family was sick. “Yes,” he replied, “Jason had a pretty nasty flu last week; Alfred practically wouldn’t let me out of my room.” Ah. “Ok, thanks, Tim,” she typed, exiting the chat window. 

She opened up the webcam tab and watched for a few minutes to confirm. Yep, she thought, Bruce had the flu. Then Barbra looked at the patrol log for the past couple weeks and confirmed again what she had suspected. Bruce had noted that he’d met up with Jason right when the other man had been sick. Not to mention, Bruce had been pulling overtime because of a minor riot at Arkham recently. Next, she pulled up his schedule for today and saw he had scheduled an all-night patrol after penciling in three hours for a meeting at the Watchtower. It was now almost 11:30 p.m. and Bruce was late by two hours. 

Barbra quickly sent Alfred a message and alerted Dick that he’d need to fill in. After she’d gotten his confirmatory response, she messaged Big Blue—Superman. “Bruce is sick. He’s sleeping right now in his room up at your club house, but keep an eye on him, ok?” she requested. A couple minutes later, a separate text, coming from Clark Kent’s phone, said, “Will do. Thx for the head’s up.” Barbra sighed, exasperated at her mentor, and at the ridiculous things she sometimes had to do for him. … 

Bruce was on fire. Well, not literally. But he was about to be: a beam from the ceiling fell, almost crushing him. He was looking for any survivors in the burning building, and only had a few minutes to go before he’d have to leave. “Help! Help” called a small voice. Bruce saw a little girl, coughing… about to wander under another beam that was creaking ominously. He rushed forward to grab her when the floor gave out with an ear-splitting crash. He was falling, falling, falling, and his cape was on fire—Bruce sat up in bed, panting, and heard a loud clatter as something fell off his bed… in his room on the Watchtower. He coughed and groaned a little at how much that hurt. He wheezed and tried to swallow, but found it was almost impossible given how dry his mouth was. Impatiently, he kicked off his blankets and swung his legs off the bed to see what had fallen. It was his laptop, which thankfully didn’t appear to be damaged. He set it on his bedside table and stood, grabbing the wall when his legs nearly gave out. Somehow, he managed to get to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. Then he relieved himself, washed his hands, refilled his water glass, and adjusted his blankets, now shivering. He sneezed suddenly and pulled out a tissue. He swallowed and groaning, got out of bed to grab the bottle of pills. He took three more and settled back under the covers, shivering, and feeling weak as a kitten. The plan was to get more work done after he warmed up some. Bruce was out the moment his head hit the pillow. … 

This time, he was wandering through an ice palace, as silently as possible, because Mr. Freeze was lurking around this place, somewhere. Bruce shivered, wishing he’d had time to wear the thermal suit; but he’d been working at the Watchtower… doing something for Tim, when he got the call. A sudden heat at his forehead made him wince and startle, but the gentle murmuring soothed him, as did the damp darkness that covered his eyes like a balm. He shifted a bit, so he was on his side, and felt more comfortable. He floated through the darkness, having defeated Mr. Freeze. …


	3. I Thought You were Watching Him?

Superman was gathering his civilian clothes to change into when his ‘work’ phone beeped. He scanned the message as he pulled on his jeans. After finishing reading the message, an eyebrow rose. So, Bruce was sick—he’d suspected so after seeing the man at the meeting but didn’t want to say anything if he wasn’t sure; the man was still prickly about things like that, even after all these years. He finished changing before sending Barbra a response that he would keep an eye on Bruce. He quickly x-rayed the walls until he saw Bruce’s sleeping form, laptop to one side of the bed. He deliberated for a moment if he should tuck the man in more but decided that there was too great a possibility of that waking him to be worth it. Besides, judging from his steady, slow heartrate, he seemed comfortable enough. Clark glanced at his phone, feeling conflicted. He did want to make sure Bruce was okay, but he also had scheduled a dinner date tonight with Lois, and she’d been in Colombia for the past two weeks working on a story. He decided to alert Diana of Bruce’s condition, as she was staying on the Watchtower, she’d told him earlier. Clark wandered off to find her. …. 

It had been thirteen hours since the second time Bruce had fallen asleep and he was still in bed, buried under his blankets. His fever had broken overnight, but somehow, he’d managed to kick off his blankets and had ended up wrapped up in a twisted knot as he shivered. So now he was sprawled across the bed, in a position that was clearly meant to give him more breathing room from the tangle of sheets. That was how Diana and Clark found him as they’d entered his room, more than a little alarmed that Bruce was still sleeping. Diana had agreed to watch over Bruce, but it being Saturday, Clark decided that he could spare a visit to the Watchtower to check on him again. He’d come up, only to see Diana at the other man’s door too. They chuckled softly, and Clark sheepishly grinned at her. “The more the merrier,” he said jokingly. 

Now, Clark refilled his friend’s water glass as Diana tried to untangle him from the sheets. He shifted, shivering a little, and Diana finally was able to get his sheets to lie somewhat flatly over him. Gently, she laid a palm on his forehead, and whispered, as he let out a deep snore, “His fever appears to have broken.” Clark nodded, floating over to the thermostat, which was set to tropical temperatures. He lowered it ten degrees and Diana asked in a whisper, “Do you think we should wake him?” 

They both looked at their friend, who was too pale, with flushed cheeks, had a rough, mucus-y snore, and an extreme case of bedhead. “Probably. I don’t know when the last time he ate or drank anything was,” Clark whispered back, stepping to the side a little as Wonder Woman floated forward and placed a hand on Bruce’s shoulder gently. 

“Bruce,” she called softly, almost cooing. His mouth formed a frown and he shifted slightly, burying himself farther under the blankets. “Bruce,” she called, a little more insistently, shaking him a little. 

He groaned, and slurred, “go ‘way, ‘lfred.” Clark smiled and repressed a chuckle. Diana looked at him in exasperation and, mouth pressed in a firm line, yanked his covers away. 

“Batman! It’s time to get up,” she said loudly. Finally, Bruce shifted, blinking, and when he realized who it was, sat up stiffly. He looked between the two of them, in a glazed-over way, clearly not computing why they were there. “Hello,” Diana said, smiling softly. 

“What are you two doing here?” he asked, sounding stuffed up and sleep addled. Clark repressed another laugh—he forgot how Bruce got after finally repaying his sleep debt. 

“You’ve been asleep in here for more than thirteen hours. We were worried about you,” Superman said. Bruce blinked at this and made to stand up. 

“Thirteen hours! I’ve got to get back to—" 

“—you will be doing no such thing,” Diana said firmly, putting a hand on his shoulder, “You’re still sick, and need to rest. We just wanted to make sure you stay hydrated and have eaten something.” Bruce looked imploringly at Clark, but Clark backed up, shaking his head. 

“Don’t look at me like that, I’m with her on this one,” he said. Then their friend’s attention went to the door between them before he visibly deflated and gave up with a squeaky sigh. 

“Fine,” he grumbled, “but can I at least take a shower before you drag me out?” … 

Fifteen minutes later, Bruce had changed, showered, and quickly shaved. He had to admit, he felt a lot better and his head felt marvelously clearer after his long sleep. But, he also noted, it was somehow harder to breathe now, and he still felt remarkably weak, not that he’d admit it to anyone. He reentered his main room to put on a pair of socks and shoes before his head was stuffed into something dark…and itchy. “Mmmmff!” he protested, squirming. “Quit that,” Clark scolded from behind his left hear. With a sharp tug, the sweater, with a large Superman ‘S’ on it, Bruce noted grumpily, was over his head. He shot a glare at Clark, and at Diana, who looked too amused for his liking. 

“What,” he asked dangerously, “is the meaning of this?” 

Clark looked back at him evenly, and said, “I don’t want you to catch cold.” Bruce sighed, which came out as a squeak. Diana smirked behind his back. Bruce pressed his lips together in a firm, displeased line. 

The three made their slow way towards the kitchen, Bruce in the middle between Clark and Diana, who walked closely in case Batman either tried to escape—which was unlikely, but possible—or in case he needed support. They made it to the kitchen without incident and sat Bruce at the table. In a couple minutes, Clark had Alfred Pennyworth’s tomato soup recipe cooking, and Diana had handed Bruce a mug of lightly-sweetened peppermint tea—Bruce’s favorite, also according to Alfred. Bruce inhaled, then coughed. He had that look on his face, Clark noted, like there was a mystery afoot. 

“Is that… Alfred’s tomato soup recipe?” he asked, sounding curious. 

“Yep,” Clark said, stirring. 

“He gave it to you?” Bruce asked, and Superman wasn’t sure he liked what the tone implied there. But he decided to give Bruce some slack, as he was sick. 

“He did, and he insisted you eat as much as possible—I called him earlier this morning,” Clark said, wicked grin on his face. 

Bruce scowled. “Typical,” he muttered, not actually sounding all that put out. Superman and Wonder Woman shared a smile over the Bat’s head. …


	4. Dreaming of a Case

A while later, Bruce had finished off two bowls of tomato soup, three cups of tea, and four pieces of toast. Diana had also had a bowl of soup and commented that she’d like the recipe as well. Clark had eaten before coming up to the Watchtower but put the extra in a Tupperware container to take home to Lois. Then they escorted Batman back to his room. Superman paused at the door, feeling like he was forgetting something. Then he snapped his fingers, remembering. “Oh yeah! Diana, I’ll be right back. I’m going to the infirmary to get some flu meds,” he said. She nodded. … 

While Clark was getting the medicine for Bruce, she tucked him into bed, still grumbling, and refilled his glass of water. Then she sat on his feet under the pretext of fluffing his pillows for him, so he did not try to escape. Superman returned, and Bruce reluctantly took the flu meds, grimacing at the artificial cherry flavor. Diana and Clark sat with their friend, filling the time with meaningless banter. At some point, Diana had absently started stroking Bruce’s hair, which, for some reason, he didn’t object to. Gradually, the other man’s eyelids were fluttering, and his words were getting more slurred. He shifted lower under his blankets and his eyes finally did not reopen. Diana and Clark waited until he started snoring loudly before retreating. … 

A few hours later, Cyborg came by Bruce’s room, and seeing that the door was unlocked, assumed Bruce was expecting him, even if he hadn’t responded to Cyborg’s earlier message. “Batman?” he called quietly, “I’m here to talk about the…” as he saw the scene before him, he froze in the doorway. Wonder Woman had her feet propped up on Batman’s bed, a book in one had as she relaxed in a chair by his bed. Superman appeared from the bathroom, damp cloth in his hand. And Batman? Well, as a bear-like snore emanated from the figure in bed, Cyborg realized where he was. “Uh,” he said quietly, backing up a little, “I’m just going to go.” Diana waved at him, not looking up. 

Superman whispered, “Close the door behind you.” … 

Bruce was just skimming the surface of unconsciousness, half-listening to the voices as he dozed. “…I’m sorry it had to be this way, but I’m almost glad he’s sick. I’ve been worried about him, lately,” said a male voice—Clark, Bruce’s more alert self supplied. 

“Yes, I as well,” said Diana. Were they talking about him? Bruce thought detachedly. Suddenly uncomfortable, he shifted, and the conversation paused. “Is he awake?” asked Diana. There was another moment’s silence. 

Clark answered, “No. But honestly, sometimes I can’t tell with him.” In his mind’s eye, Bruce frowned. Clark had probably listened to his heartbeat. And what was this crap, that he wasn’t awake. 

“Yes, sometimes I cannot tell either,” Diana confessed. 

“Uh huh. That’s why I’m almost glad this happened, and that we were able to be here for him. I’ve been trying to befriend him for years, and sometimes, I think I’ll make progress… and then he’ll shut me out—give me the cold shoulder. You think you know a guy, and then… it turns out, you don’t,” Clark said, sighing in a frustrated manner. Bruce frowned again. Was he really like that—like a guy who you thought you knew… but something about that seemed to be familiar. Bruce dozed, thinking. It was familiar…like that apartment fire he’d dreamed about, or that suspect in that case that Tim had asked him about. The voices of Clark and Diana faded, as Bruce fell into a sort of memory-dream. … 

Clark and Diana paused their conversation as Bruce shifted, seeming to stir in a way that preceded waking up. But then he settled down again… but he didn’t look quite asleep. “Is he awake?” asked Diana. Clark listened to his friend’s heartbeat. It still sounded like he was asleep—but maybe not deep sleep. Then, Clark discussed his frustrations about Batman with Diana, and she nodded listening. Bruce stirred again, but this time, seemed to settle down and finally appeared to enter another dream by the way he just sort of relaxed. They stayed by his side, conversation wandering from topic to topic, content to stay with their sick friend, even if he didn’t know they were there. … 

An hour later, Bruce once again started stirring. For some reason, he found himself back in that burning apartment, and then, abruptly, yelling something at Victor Fries. A name. Something important about a name… As the scene shifted back to that burning, abandoned apartment, and that crying little girl, and Bruce falling again, he lurched suddenly, and sat bolt up. 

Both Clark and Diana jumped and stared at Bruce. When he didn’t say anything, just looked thoughtful, they shared a concerned glance. “Bruce?” asked Diana cautiously. 

He steepled his hands under his chin and muttered, “Brandon Mahttery.” Clark frowned, and Diana raised an eyebrow. Bruce made to get out of bed and Clark grabbed his shoulder. Bruce shook him off, seeming to come back from a far place, and said, making deliberate eye-contact, “I’m fine. Let me get my computer, I need to contact Tim. I think I figure out something about his case.” Clark released his grip on Batman and the man stood and rapidly grabbed his laptop, opening it as he absently walked back to his bed and sat down, typing furiously. After about six or seven minutes of this, Clark and Diana shared another concerned look. Bruce looked completely absorbed in what he was doing. But then, with a slight smirk he finished typing in what appeared to be a decisive manner and looked up. “I figured it out,” he said, looking pleased, “the answer was in my dreams.” Clark was now really concerned about his friend. …


	5. A Solution to Tim's Problem

Bruce snapped open his eyes, the answer about why that name sounded so familiar finally coming to him. Brandon Mahttery had been a small-time arsonist and sometimes-money-launderer for the mob back about ten or twelve years ago, before Tim’s time. Bruce had kept an eye on him but hadn’t really paid that much attention to him… until the Brackett fire, that was. The Brackett apartment complex had been in the nicer side of the East End, and was originally supposed to serve as subsidized housing, but the city didn’t have the money for it. The mob had bought it, but since Batman had recently put a snarl in their plans, the deeds were caught up in legal hell. 

Eventually the mob’s lawyers had come through though. At that point, the legal fees made the victory a hollow one. However, Mahttery had purposed that an ‘accident’ befall the newly acquired building to get the insurance money. It had almost worked too, except Batman had been paying attention, and for the fact that there had been a little girl. Cynthia Crownne, Bruce recalled with a pang. She’d only been six years old, playing in the abandoned building while her mother was sleeping, recovering from a late shift working at a local diner. She had died in the fire—and Bruce almost had too, except as he’d been falling, he’d been able to grapple through an already broken window and instead of death, had broken his leg and gotten a concussion for his efforts. 

Mahttery had disappeared… only to turn up a year later, having partnered with Victor Fries, trying to steal enough cash to buy his safety from the mob. They were still angry at his failure. Bruce had apprehended Fries that night and caught Mahttery a few days later. After Batman had caught him, he’d said, about Fries, “You think you know a guy, and then… it turns out, you don’t.” He had, to both Bruce’s and Gordon’s anger, merely been charged with manslaughter, and sentenced twelve to twenty years at Blackgate. It appeared, however, that either he had somehow gotten out for good behavior, or escaped, and was now back to his old tricks. That was why he had seemed so familiar, and that also explained the weird, repetitive dreams. 

As someone gasped, Bruce realized he’d been speaking aloud, and that everything he’d been saying, Clark and Diana had heard. Bruce stiffened, and Clark realized he’d startled his friend. “And you figured this all out in your sleep?” Diana asked, sounding impressed. Bruce nodded, relaxing a little. 

“Yes, I had been working on it—before I fell asleep—and it must have still been on my mind. So, it was important to get the information to Tim as quickly as possible, because Mahttery is slippery, and I want to make sure he goes back to prison for a long time,” Bruce growled. Diana nodded. 

“Hopefully Tim catches him soon,” Clark added weakly, still thinking, Bruce solved a crime in his sleep! ... 

Two days later, Clark had received a call from Alfred, who requested to speak to Bruce, who, all had agreed, should remain resting in the Watchtower, as the moment he was back in Gotham, he was sure to start pushing himself again, especially now that he had a lead on Tim’s case. As Clark walked the phone to Bruce’s room—where he and Diana were playing their fifth game of chess that day—he did feel a pang of pity for the man. Clark knew how hard it was being cooped up somewhere, and he knew Bruce was chomping at the bit to get back out there and catch his crook, not to mention, with how smart he was, Clark was sure he was bored almost out of his mind up here. But, Clark also realized, the man had almost no self-preservation instinct, and would, without proper supervision, work himself literally to the grave. So, while he did feel a bit bad for the other man, he did not regret his actions. Nevertheless, he did hope that Alfred’s decision would be the one to allow Bruce to leave the Watchtower, because, he honestly wasn’t sure how much longer it would be until Batman started climbing the walls. He walked into the room with the phone, only to hear Diana curse in Greek, again. Apparently, she still hadn’t beaten Bruce. The other man smirked, and Alfred made a remark about his surrogate son driving other people batty. 

At the sound of his butler/father-figure’s voice, Bruce perked up, almost like a dog. “Give it here,” he said, sounding determined. Clark rolled his eyes, but hesitated as Alfred’s slightly tinny voice instructed, “Do not give into his poor manners, Master Clark. Make him say please.” Clark gave Bruce a look, and the other man sighed, rolling his eyes. “Please hand me the phone, Clark, so I can fire my butler,” he said. …


	6. Bruce Feels Better, and Clark gets Payback

After talking to Bruce for half an hour, the other man pacing back and forth like a caged zoo animal, paying no heed to his friends, who had started playing each other in chess, he smirked and said, “All right, Alfred. I’ll let them know.” Diana roared in victory as she put Clark in check-mate. Clark rolled his eyes, groaning as Diana spun around the room in a bizarre victory dance. 

“Flash taught her that,” Bruce commented, holding out the phone insistently, “take this and talk to Alfred so I can leave… please.” … 

A few minutes later, Clark had received the all-clear from Alfred to let Bruce go. He hung up and Bruce stopped his pacing. “Well,” he demanded, “what did he say?” Clark decided to tease his friend for a moment. 

He put on a serious face and said, sighing, “Sorry Bruce. But he says you’ve got to stay here two more days, just to be safe.” Bruce visibly deflated before his eyes, and Clark felt bad. Just a little. Clark let the silence drag on for a moment longer. He counted in his head one, two three, four… 

“GODDAMNIT, Clark! That’s not funny,” Bruce said, glaring at him furiously. 

Clark burst out laughing— “Your face, Bruce. You looked so sad. Are Diana and I not entertaining enough for you?” he asked. Bruce glared, but said nothing. Clark laughed one last time, and stopped himself, with a sigh. “Oh my god, that was priceless,” he said. Diana smirked, still happy about finally winning a game of this ‘chess.’ 

“I hate you,” Bruce grumped. 

“Aww, come on,” Clark said, hovering at his friend’s side, “it was funny—and I got you, I, ‘Boy scout’ Kent, got you, the big bad Bat. Also, you’re good to go.” 

At this, Bruce let a tiny smile appear, and said, “Okay, I’ll admit, you got me, Clark. Just don’t try that again.” All three of them laughed. … 

Bruce, with help of Clark and Diana, had cleaned the room, disinfecting everything, and Bruce had packed up all his things before finally taking off, practically skipping to the transporter—or at least, the equivalent for Batman, which was a brisk walk. He stood, waiting for Clark to press the button to finally send him home to Gotham. He waited… and he waited. “CLARK!” he barked. 

“Sorry!” the other man said, laughing. Bruce opened his mouth to chew out his friend when the other man pushed the button. 

“Goddamn it—” Bruce exclaimed, now in the empty Batcave. 

“Language, Master Bruce,” said an amused voice behind him. 

“Sorry, Alfred,” he grumbled, already calculating how he could make Clark pay. … 

A month later, Clark had caught a cold after one of Lex Luthor’s more grandiose schemes involving kryptonite made his powers go on the fritz. Bruce climbed through his friend’s open window and waited for him to wake up. Eventually he did, sleepily blinking his eyes, looking for what had woken him up. He saw Bruce and jumped. Bruce grinned at him from the darkest corner of Clark Kent’s bedroom, and held up the thermos of Alfred’s tomato soup and a bottle of cold medicine, then said, trying not to savor it too much, “My turn.” Clark glared at him, before laying back down and turning on his side, pulling the covers up. 

Bruce heard a muffled, “I hate you” and grinned. This was already fun.


End file.
